Destroyed
by GatesThistle
Summary: "The best fights are the ones you lose." Or: Tyler returns at an inopportune moment. MarlaXNarratorXTyler


He's like the devil.

Speak of him and he shall appear.

The only time I hear his name so often is when Marla and I fuck.

It used to bother me that she moaned _his_ name while I fucked her, so I pounded even harder into her, only making her moan and shriek even more.

_His_ name. Over and over like a mantra in my head.

He's watching us tonight, barely blinking. I don't know when he showed up, but he's here now. Smoking and looking a little bit amused.

I suppose I should be surprised that he's here, but I can't bring myself to.

Speak of him and he shall appear.

His hands are all over us. Running down my back only to smoothly transition between Marla's legs, stroking the creamy flesh of her inner thigh.

From the gasp she makes I almost think she can feel it.

The pauses between her moans and cries of pleasure are shortening, and her hips are jerking erratically. She's close, so am I.

Tyler has his lips wrapped around her unaware nipple, teeth teasing. His eyes are on me, as he rolls it between his teeth, looking almost innocent from under his lashes.

I know better.

She's coming, and I'm right behind her, almost there.

We simultaneously shout his name.

We both freeze.

She reacts first. Slapping me hard across the face, and struggles out from under me.

"Fuck you," she says, searching for her clothes. "Narcissistic bastard."

I can't move. Even as she's pulled on her second shoe and is stalking out in that stiff way she has.

For someone so great in bed, she's shockingly graceless.

"Marla, wait." But it's out too late.

She's gone.

And now I have a problem. I am Jack's unsatisfied libido.

"Sorry about that," Tyler says with his smirk in place, not sounding at all sorry.

Two problems.

He looks the same, his hair grown back, still wearing sunglasses inside, still in that red jacket. Lips still split. Still ridiculously good-looking.

Is this really what I want?

He cocks his head to the side. "Was that rhetorical?"

What do you want? Why are you here?

"You called."

I called. His name.

Speak of him and he shall appear.

I shouldn't be able to feel it as he touches me. He isn't there. Then again, he shouldn't have been able to throw me down a flight of stairs. But he had.

So I felt it.

I felt the unnatural heat his body gave off, inches from mine. I felt his warm breath puffing against my cheek. I felt his hand wrap around my dick.

Marla had left me out in the cold, and I had been almost there. Contact almost hurt. It was supposed to hurt.

With Tyler, what was the point if it didn't hurt?

I whine. His hands twist harshly, those calloused fingers I've felt hit me, burn me and caress me, are now roughly jerking me off.

I may have screamed. Now it did hurt. Over sensitive skin against his rough, dry hands.

He's muttering a litany of filthy things in my ear. I close my eyes and ride out the pain.

This is just like him beating the shit out of me.

"I'll carry you kicking and screaming."

I am screaming. He's torturing me. This is worse than Marla leaving me. But I'm so desperate. I can't stop myself.

"You'll thank me."

And I'm gone. It's the post fight euphoria. The pain is still there and I've been utterly destroyed.

The best fights are the ones you lose.

He punches me in the jaw. It hurts. It will bruise. I want to hit him back.

He's gone.

XXX

The next night I cry out the right name as I fuck Marla.

He's there again. Watching us. He doesn't touch either of us the whole time.

Then he fucks me while Marla sleeps.

I let him.

He doesn't leave this time. He sits in the chair, without a shirt, smoking. I can smell the nicotine, but I tell myself it's just left over from Marla's most recent post coital cigarette.

He knows better. He smirks.

And he watches.

He watches my sanity fall apart again and I struggle to put myself back together. He wants me broken. Fucked up. Destroyed.

Self improvement is masturbation. As it turns out, so is self destruction.

**Author's Note:** So, this didn't exactly turn out how I planned. I wanted to write something fucked up, 'cause those are my favorites. I hope you liked it. Forgive my pathetic attempt at artistic simplicity. And my complete lack of familiarity with _Fight Club_. My first time, be gentle.

For the record, I don't own these people, plot, places etc. If I could though, I'd want to own Brad Pitt's abs. Just his abs. They make me a little jealous.


End file.
